


What Lurks Beneath the Silvery Surface

by boredwriting



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Drinking, Blood and Violence, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28748538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boredwriting/pseuds/boredwriting
Summary: A Ventrue fledging is uprooted from her human life to participate in a political game of cat and mouse she never asked to be apart of. What's more complicated is that the city's Prince is taking a special interest in her while her past Sire commands her blood.
Relationships: Fledgling/Sire (Vampire: The Masquerade - Bloodlines), Sebastian LaCroix/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 15





	1. The Embrace

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick note here. This fic is a redo/rewrite/overhaul of a story that I took down previously, What We Hide in the Dark. My apologies to everyone who was wondering where that particular story went.
> 
> Basically, what happened is that I hit a massive writer's block and felt stuck with the story's format and posted chapters. I took it down and made the decision to rework the entire outline and essentially rewrite everything. I kept the same OCs and some of the major plot points, but everything else is entirely different. 
> 
> That's all. I hope you guys enjoy! ^.^

It’s late on a Friday night. Benjamin steps past the threshold to his apartment to reach the dimmer for the lights. His one-bedroom apartment is small, but what it lacks in space he’s made up for in excessive comforts. He brightens the room to a dim glow, not wanting to kill the mood with too much white light. The interior is exceptional and immaculate, decorated with modern furnishings, expensive art, and soft, dark gray fabrics. Only the best for his Ventrue tastes.

His date for the night steps in from behind him and admires the view. The woman’s eyes perk up to the view of its luxury. A small sigh parts her lips.

Her name is Emily Boucher, a former aide to a polarizing political figure. He met her at a fundraising event they were both invited to a few weeks ago. He found her standing in the background like a wallflower, not caring to be noticed. But even then, he found her to be remarkably beautiful. With her natural brunette waves, dark eyes, and draping brown dress, she reminded him of the Golden Age of Hollywood, a part of history he’s rather fond of. He approached her to strike a conversation and despite her shyness, they got on extraordinarily well. He was impressed by her grace and eloquence, combined with her intellect and empathy for those around her. She was impressed with his assertiveness and bright exposition, and his immense knowledge of world history and cultures. They made sure to keep regular contact after that night. They’ve seen each other several times since then.

This night is a strange night for both of them. Earlier in the evening, Emily had called him to tell him she was leaving the city in a few days. She'd been fired and had a reason to get out of LA quickly. She had already made plans to stay with friends in New York until she can figure out her next move somewhere along the East Coast. She wanted to see him in person one last time to say goodbye. He offered her the chance to spend one last night with him in his apartment and she accepted.

The news concerned him. He cared for her well-being of course, but more importantly, it put a damper on his plans.

He had already decided some time ago to make her his childe. He couldn’t let her slip away. While he had hoped to introduce her into the world of Kindred gradually, perhaps sitting her down one night to walk her through it, it was no longer a possibility.

He has to do it quicker than planned. He has to do it tonight.

“Your place is amazing. If my apartment was anything like this, I’d never leave.” Her voice is low and understated. He can barely hear her.

“You’re always welcome to stay.” He turns to meet her gaze and grins. She returns the smile.

“I wish I could.” She averts her eyes from him and moves further into the room. She hangs her head low, sad, and downtrodden from recent events in her life. Her hair hangs just past her jawline and obscures her soft features from view. As she walks, she moves her feet across the floor delicately and smoothly to avoid making a sound. It’s almost as if she’s trying to float across.

He sees her and can’t help but pity her, but he also can’t help but admire her subtle grace. Even at her worst, she knows how to hold herself together.

“Let me get you a drink.” He makes his way to the kitchenette and pulls a bottle of wine from a cabinet. It’s an expensive French vintage he’s had on hand for decades. He’s been waiting for the perfect occasion to put it to good use.

He uncorks it and pours its dry red contents into a crystal wine glass. He offers it to her, and she takes it happily.

“Thank you,” she tells him graciously. “Aren’t you going to help yourself to a glass?”

“In a moment. I need to get comfortable first,” he tells her to stall for time. There’s nothing that can truly prepare him for what he has to do. But the least he can do is to have her enjoy what little time she has left and despite her somber mood.

She winks at the suggestion. “Can’t wait to move things along?”

“I’ve never been a patient man.” he teases back. She bites her lip from the flirtatious exchange. “Wait here. Make yourself at home.”

He leaves her in the main room and heads for the bedroom. As soon as he shuts the door, he rids himself of his shoes, watch, and clothing until he’s down to just his boxers. Then he goes to the bathroom to freshen up.

He flickers on the lights and checks himself in the mirror. His skin is incredibly light and pale with pink and blue undertones, a trait he often attributes to his Scottish and English heritage whenever asked by kine, though when he's not parched he has more of his natural warm pigment. His eyes are duller in color and brightness than usual. Their natural hazel color has been brought down to a cloudy gray texture from the lack of vitae. Accentuated by the deep and sullen bags underneath, he’s looking more dead than alive. He might not get far with Emily if she sees him like this in the light and grows concerned for him. The only thing he can fix right away is his unraveling hair. He brushes through his dirty blond hair with a fine-tooth comb to tidy up its loosened strands before exiting the room.

In the bedroom, he slips on a long faux fur robe and checks himself in the mirror as he belts it around his waist. The robe drapes around him loosely and falls just below the knee.

He’s tall, a little over six feet, with wide shoulders and a sturdy muscular build. He’s as strong as he looks. He’s often made to be the envy of weaker men and the object of desire for women. It used to be a thing he didn’t care for as kine, but as a Ventrue, he’s learned to make use of that perception of him, to use that element of attraction to his advantage. He knows Emily is more attracted to his banter and personality, but he knows his appearance was a factor when considering his invitation for a nighttime rendezvous. Emily, as modest as she looks, is still a warm-blooded woman.

Benjamin heads back into the main room to find Emily looking out the window with a refilled glass. The curtains are opened to reveal the view of the LA skyline outside. She’s watching the city lights glow brightly against the clear night sky.

While it diverts her attention, he sneaks to the kitchenette and pulls a blood bag from a hidden fridge compartment. He swiftly gulps down half its contents before pouring the rest into another wine glass. He feels a relieving warmth overtake his body and restore a lively vigor to him. He finally looks and feels less like death. Emily shouldn’t expect a thing now.

He goes to join her by her side at the window. She's pleased to see him in a robe with a glass of his own.

“You look comfy.” She brushes her fingers through his sleeve to get a feel for the faux fur.

“You do too.” He caresses her cheek to get a feel for her skin. She’s warm, almost hot to the touch from the alcohol flush. She smiles and touches his hand. He loves it when she reciprocates his affections.

“How are you, by the way?” he puts his hand down and asks her a candid question, moving the night in a more serious direction. She takes a sip of her wine and purses her lips.

“Right now, I’m enjoying myself. But overall, not good. I can’t stand being in this city.” She turns back to the view outside the window. She seems displeased by it. “I was born in this state, you know. Moved around a lot, but eventually found my way back. Came here for college and stayed when I thought I found an opportunity to make a change. Seems silly now to think that I had a real chance here.”

Her voice falls to a quiet pitch. She twirls the wine in her glass with an unsteady hand before taking a generous sip. She seems pained by the view.

Ben takes a sip of his own drink. Type AB Vitae, taken from a kine of the finest pedigree. A spoiled trust fund legacy brat from a long line of old money, now the heir of a centennial aged company. It was expensive and time-consuming to find and extract, but it was all worth it to suit his preferences. It’s _his_ equivalent of an old, dry red French vintage. Ben enjoys the feeling of warm, burning resentment at the back of his throat. It takes his mind off his inner tension for a mere minute.

He gathers his thoughts again.“This city isn't for everyone. I know that much. But it seems drastic to move cross-country because of it, don’t you think?”

Emily turns her shoulder to face him. Her brown eyes stare him down critically. “I forgot I never told you what happened down there, down in the office. There’s a reason why I can’t work around here again. It’s not out of choice.”

“I can't legally disclose this so please, keep this in confidence. In short, I got into a fight with Rose. I confronted her one morning on the questionable things she was saying and doing, how I thought she was going to hurt herself, the campaign, and even the office if she didn’t stop. She took immediate offense to it... then had me thrown out in the most dramatic way possible, kicking and screaming.”

Rose Heiden, a former Hollywood executive turned politician, is a Democratic candidate running against the incumbent governor for the state of California. Her larger-than-life personality on camera, and her reputation of having difficult working relationships with numerous stars and old coworkers in the past, has made her a divisive figure in the current election season. In the media, she is portrayed as either a media darling for her charisma or an evil witch for her past mistakes, depending on the news source.

It’s a wonder how someone as temperate as Emily got to working for such a difficult figure. It’s a greater shame how she found out the hard way that politics has a way of chewing people up and spitting them out.

“Did she threaten you? What did she do that’s gotten you so frightened?”

“’Threaten’ would be putting it lightly. Before I left, she screamed from the top of her lungs that she’ll ruin my reputation, have me blacklisted from working with anyone in this town, not just in public office, but _any_ office. And knowing the extent of her influence, her threats wouldn’t just be limited to LA either. I haven’t put an ear out there yet, but I don’t want to be around when I hear my name get smeared in the dirt.”

Her glass is nearly empty. She takes one last gulp to finish the remnants before staring down the bottom of the glass. She swings the arm with the empty glass down to her side.

“Is it just the threats that bother you? You sure you didn’t just catch her in a mood?” Ben often likes to use humor to downplay the seriousness of a terrible event. He sometimes forgets that Americans aren’t so privy to it. He realizes this when Emily shoots a wicked glare his way.

“Well, she threw a vase at me.” She swings her wine glass forward to demonstrate this.

“A vase? That’s quite serious then!” He lets out a small laugh. He'll never admit this, but he finds her endearing when she's angry.

“Ben, please! It's not funny.” Her expression grows more intense. She’s upset and very unamused. “If it had hit me, I would’ve had grounds to sue.”

“So she tried to assault you, is what you’re saying?” He remarks. He's genuinely concerned and serious this time.

She nods her head, wincing from the emotional pain. “Yes. But it didn’t hit me, so I can’t claim it as an assault. And if I ever tell anyone, she’ll just deny that it ever happened, so it’s like it never happened.” She throws her hands up in exasperation. Tired of twirling the empty glass in her hand, she goes to set it down on a nearby end table before sitting herself on the couch.

“The morning after, I got an email stating I’d been officially let go. The lawyers recommended that I leave quietly and say absolutely nothing about her, my role in the campaign, or what had happened, or they’ll work to take action against me. That was the biggest threat of all.” She sits up with her back stiff and crosses her legs. Whether consciously or not, she shakes her foot over her knee. She looks completely and utterly defeated. “It’s not enough that I’m afraid of being near her again. I can’t say anything about what happened, even if asked. No one will believe me.”

“Well, I believe you.” Ben puts his own glass down and joins her on the couch. “And I believe your situation is just as serious as you say it is. Truly.” He places a hand on her shoulder to comfort her.

“Good to see I got through to you.” She reciprocates by rubbing her hand on his knee. “This anxiety has been killing me. I feel like I won’t feel safe until I’m as far from her as possible.”

“You’re doing good. You have a plan, and you’re going to stick to it. You’ll be alright.” The lie stings him in the chest. He puts on a confident smile to mask it.

“Thanks, Ben. It means a lot hearing it from you.” She leans on him and rests her head on his chest. He wraps an arm around her and holds her tightly against him. She sighs in contentment; her breath feels warm against his skin.

In a spontaneous act, he turns to her and lands a kiss on her lips. It’s imprecise and sloppy but still achieves its intended result.

When he releases it, her eyes are wide open from the surprise. She leans into him with her own hungry kiss. She pushes down on his chest and makes him fall on his back, letting her land on top of him. With her chest against his, he teases her and gets a taste of her skin by kissing her hard on her neck. She lets out a gasp from the shock and the pleasure.

Her neck is hot and flush with blood. It takes a substantial amount of restraint for him to not devour her right then and there. He has to hold on for just... a little while longer. There’s one more thing he wants to do with her.

From underneath her, he slides out from the couch and stands above her. As she turns back up to face him, he picks her up by the waist and holds her taut in his arms. She wraps her arms around his neck and her legs around his chest.

He carries her to the bedroom and drops into bed with her. She releases her grip on him to slide her hands underneath his robe to feel his bare chest. She lets out a sigh when she feels his skin is warm to the touch.

“Emily, do you really want to...” He hesitates for a moment. It had occurred to him that he never asked her what she wanted.

“Ben, what do you think?” She licks her teeth and pulls the sash around his robe away, causing it to open and hang off him.

“I need to hear it from you.” He has a nervous tic. Does she think he does this constantly? Drag women into bed and expect sex from them? He knows the motions well enough, but emotionally? They’re hard to gauge.

“Yes. I want this. I want you.” She looks up at him lovingly and strokes his cheek. “If this is our last night together, I’d rather spend it on something I’ll remember it by. And besides, I’ve fantasized about this for a _long_ time.”

“Have you now?” He chuckles and kisses her palm. “Had restless thoughts of me before bed?”

“I might have also done a little more than have restless thoughts.” She lets out a wide smile as she laughs. A pink blush forms on her cheeks.

He can’t help but laugh alongside her. “You naughty girl.” He swoops down to kiss and licks her neck again, causing her to erupt into a bigger fit of laughter.

She taps him on his back to get him to release her. “Now, are you going to tease me all night or are you going to take me?”

He gazes down into her eyes. She still shows signs of worry and sadness through them, hidden beneath the lust and desire. She wants him to take her away from all of this, at least for a little while. With one last release.

“Let me show you how much you mean to me.”

Ben shrugs his robe and boxers off him while Emily strips herself of her own clothing. It’s not long until their bodies intermingle with one another’s on the soft satin sheets.

She showers him with kisses and eager touches as he gets himself hard on top of her. It’s been a long time since he’s had to go through the motions of intercourse. In all the previous times with kine women, it was all performative, a deceptive act to achieve a goal, never done for his own pleasure. This time it’s no different.

But with Emily, he's wrought with emotion. He finds her sweet and endearing, and a rare gentle soul among both kine and Kindred alike. He’s enjoyed every moment he’s had with her up to this point, and in his mind’s eye, she deserves everything she’s ever wanted. Including sharing what will be her last moment as kine with him in an intimate display. Even with the inevitable in mind, he holds his sorrow back to engage in her lust.

He’s gentle as he enters inside of her. She grasps his shoulders and tenses up as he pushes further in. She feels tight around him.

“Are you alright?” He asks her in a breathy tone. Her response is simple: a single passionate kiss and a plea. _Keep going._

He rocks his hips against her, gradually quickening the pace until it’s nearly seamless. He uses her moans and gasps for air to gauge how much pressure he should put onto her. Each time he deepens the connection, she claws at his back and begs for more. _Harder. Deeper._

He gives in to her passion. He indulges her further until she tilts her head back on the pillow and desperately cries out.

“Ben, I’m going to... I...”

As she meets her release, he sinks his fangs into her neck, licking and sucking her artery as her hot, endorphin spiked blood spills into his mouth.

She clenches her thighs around his hips and tugs at his scalp as she cries out in sheer pleasure. The blended ecstasy of the Kiss and her peak together is too much for her to bear. Ben eventually finds his own release when their collective blood chemistry merges. He bites down and sucks on her even harder to brace himself through the incredible rush.

Eventually, the artery runs dry, and her body grows cold. She shivers from weakness as she struggles to hold on before her limbs fall to her sides. The color in her eyes fades into a cloudy fog before she loses consciousness. Soon she stops breathing and moving altogether.

The deed is done. Emily has lost her life.

Without a second to spare, Ben tears his wrist open with his teeth and brings it over her mouth. He forces her lips apart to his vitae pours into her. He winces through the physical pain of his tear and the emotional pain of killing his lover. He stops and licks his wound shut when he sees his blood pool at the edges of her unmoving lips. It's enough to complete the Embrace.

He rises from the bed and tucks her body in with the blanket. He thinks she would prefer to have her modesty preserved when she wakes up as Kindred. He slips back into his robe and ties it with the sash before he goes to sit down in a nearby chair.

He feels his heart thrash against his chest before losing control of his breathing. Faking being alive is tedious and painful, and also very anxiety-inducing.

He gazes upon her still body and feels an overwhelming sense of guilt. She never got the chance to learn what would become of her. She never got the chance to gain closure over her human life before enacting the change. Maybe in another life, he could've convinced her to be Embraced willingly, and they’d have all the time in the world to prepare her for it. Instead, he had to bring it upon her forcefully.

The timing was not in his favor. It seldom is. It’s not enough that he defected from the Camarilla at the worst opportunity. Fate had also put his future Childe on the run too. When he learned of her plans to leave, he panicked. He knew he’d never find her again if he let her escape through the cracks. Fate had once again caught him in a moment of weakness, and he extended his misfortunes to Emily.

She is undeserving of the Embrace, as all good kine are. She’s a sad soul who leaned on him during a vulnerable moment, and he exploited that. But even so, he can’t help but think of her potential.

He chose her for her temperance and emotional intelligence, two traits he finds sorely lacking in present-day Ventrue. With his guidance, he could shape her to lead the world among Kings with power, grace, and dignity. But not before he has to subject her to the pain and hardship that’s inevitable in any Ventrue’s journey.

He prays one night she will grow to understand. However, there are no promises.

From this forceful Embrace, he may grow to resent him. Maybe even hate him. She may even want him dead one night and succeed in her plans to make it so. It’s a chance he has to take. He almost regrets his decision, but it’s too late to turn back.

Just as Ben is coming to terms with the present, he hears a large blast take the apartment's front door off his hinges. Armed men storm into the main room, calling out his name through the smoke.

“Whittaker! We know you’re both here! You and that fucking childe!”

They throw Ben into a panic. There’s no other way out of this apartment except for the window. He could survive a drop from this high up. But Emily... She wouldn’t. She’s doomed and he can’t bear to leave her. They’re both done for.

In a last-ditch effort to hang on, he slams the bedroom door shut and attempts to hold it down with his body on Fortitude. It proves to be a useless act, as he knew it would.

The men blast through the door and send it and his body flying. One of them is quick to drive a stake through Emily’s covered chest. Another one lifts the wooden door off of him.

That’s when Ben sees him; Prince LaCroix’s Sheriff towering above him.

Ben peers up at him and tries to look into his eyes. He sees nothing in them. No emotion. No thought. No individuality or soul. Just LaCroix’s unwavering influence over this hulking behemoth through an unbreakable blood bond.

Ben breaks into uncontrollable laughter. Who would’ve thought the bastard Prince knew how to track him down? He even knew the precise moment when he'd sire a childe. It’s actually impressive!

The timing is too good. It's absurd.

A Brujah swoops down to drive a stake into his chest. His jovial, fatalistic attitude fades as soon as he dips into the black.


	2. A Sire Stands His Ground

When the sharpened wood is finally ripped out of his chest, Ben finds himself in a different space at a different time. He’s not sure how much time has passed, but all he feels now is a deep, shivering pain running a course through his body. His muscles feel weak and over-strained. The surrounding air is stale, damp, and cold. A single white ceiling light is dangling above him, blinding him temporarily.

He’s sitting on his knees. He can’t move his ankles or his hands behind his back. He’s fully clothed in itchy cheap fabric fashioned into a nondescript gray uniform and his feet are bare. His skin and hair feel dry, unkempt, and dirty.

When his body tries to lurch forward, a thick hand reaches for his hair and pulls him up, forcing him to look up at a painful angle. The hand belongs to an unknown Brujah guard. There are four anonymous guards total. The angle which they have forced him into is making him look toward none other than Sebastian LaCroix. The dreaded new Camarilla Prince. The Prince is dressed in a fine dark suit that contrasts greatly with the light-colored concrete room. He sticks out like a sore thumb.

“You’re awake. Good.” LaCroix is bending down from the waist to look Ben right in the eyes, hovering just a few feet away from his face. Ben’s vision is still blurred from the abrupt awakening, but from this distance, he can still make out his features.

“LaCroix.” He calls out. His voice is unexpectedly quiet and hoarse; he finds out the hard way how parched his system is. His throat stings in wretched pain.

“Whittaker.” LaCroix’s voice rings clear and true in the echoing room. “Did you honestly think I would allow you to stay out of my grasp for long?” He lowers his volume and pitch to patronize the pitiful, bound man.

“You’ve been following me this whole time, haven’t you?” Ben speaks up as much as his aching throat would allow him, which in this case is no louder than a regular indoor voice. The pain strikes him as sharply as it did before.

“Indeed, I have.” The Brujah unhands him. Then LaCroix grasps Ben’s jaw with a firm hand and digs his nails into his skin. His own face tenses up from the pressure he’s exacting upon the larger man. “Siring a childe in _my_ city? Without _my_ permission? Very sloppy work, Whittaker. How very unlike you.”

Ben winces from the cutting pain and bears his fangs. “That building... it was secure... guarded by wards...” He’s barely audible. It’s even harder to speak now with the Prince’s grip near his throat.

The building he took Emily to, where his apartment is situated, was in his name. A gift from the Camarilla of yesteryear, he had the deed and the permits to do whatever he wanted it. With one floor containing an important Elysium, he had the entire property warded and protected from unwanted Kindred intruders by the LA Chantry headed by Strauss, which was to be strictly maintained by them at all costs.

The fact that LaCroix’s men could break into his haven without his permission means...

“You’ve done nothing but undermine my rule since its very beginning. The court and the Primogen are in agreement with me; that you have the potential to become a major liability to this organization. I had a surveillance order placed on you several weeks ago, and you’ve done nothing but prove me right.”

Strauss. Strauss and the other primogen had given up on him. They disabled the wards right under his very nose. Despite him having served them dutifully for over fifty years, the new Prince was able to swindle away their favor towards him and convince them to take everything away. They’ve left him at the mercy of this newly instated, fresh-faced Prince.

Now, with a recent illegal Embrace under his belt, he can never hope to face them with any form of dignity ever again. His and Emily’s fate is sealed. His heart falls into deep despair.

“The childe. Who is she to you? Why have you chosen her?” LaCroix twists his grip on Ben’s jaw to bring him to attention.

Ben briefly thinks back to his last positive recollection of Emily. Her head resting on the bed, her wirey hair spread out against the gray satin pillow sheet, her cheerful expression as she laughed at her own joke. That’s all he can think of her now. He won’t recall his own schemes at a time and place like this.

“Quite the bonny lass, ain’ she?” He quips in his old Scottish accent from underneath LaCroix’s grip. He’d smile or laugh if he had control of his jaw.

The suited man abruptly releases his hold on him, opening his hand and pulling it back. Ben’s head immediately drops to his chest as he seeks relief from the deep nail indentations on his skin. He voluntarily looks back up when LaCroix snaps his fingers in front of his face.

“I need you to speak plainly. Tell me why you chose her.” LaCroix has his brows scrunched at the sight of the larger man.

“Why fukkin’ bother me askin’? C’mon lad, you must have a file on ‘er. Connect the dots ye-self.” He tells him, still keeping the accent. He knows his “commoner” speech bothers LaCroix immensely from previous interactions with him.

As expected, LaCroix receives the response poorly. The Prince strikes Ben across the face with an open palm and closed fingers. The slap leaves a large red mark on his cheek and causes him to flinch from the compounding pain on top of everything else. It knocks the snide smile off his face.

“I know who she is, her background, her history, who she works for. All the basic details lead to her being an insignificant woman; a complete pedestrian, having none of the qualities of a valid Embrace candidate for our esteemed clan.” LaCroix’s tone becomes louder and more intense, more in line with his normal self. “What I want to know is what she means to you, why you risked your life violating the Masquerade by siring a childe as lowly as her.”

Ben grits his teeth at the insult. He’s going through hell rigjt now and his death is more than guaranteed. He’s in no mood to accept his insults or give him concrete answers. “Have you seen the girl, LaCroix? She’s a real beauty. Beautiful enough to fall in love with.” He switches back to his “default” standard English accent to humor the man differently.

“That has no bearing on the topic at hand!” The shorter man lashes out in a single sentence before groaning out of exasperation. Then he backs away from Ben to pace around the room in slow, patient strides to regain his composure. He looks up at the ceiling for a second, as if planning his next line of conversation. Eventually, he turns back to face Ben from the middle of the room.

“I know you have no motivation to tell me the full truth. The result of your upcoming trial is more than assured, after all. So allow me to offer you a generous incentive.”

LaCroix gestures to a guard nearby to bring something to Ben. The guard takes out an unlabeled blood pack from his jacket pocket and tears the small tab at the bottom with his teeth. The Brujah who previously grabbed him snatches his jaw and restrains his head upward. The blood pack carrier pours the contents into Ben’s mouth without warning, with only some making it in and the rest spilling onto his neck and chest. Ben, despite dreading every second of this uncomfortable situation, parts his lips to collect as much of the bitter-tasting vitae as he can to soothe his pain. It goes down with a smooth lingering burn that matches that of his highest preference.

He still hates LaCroix with everything he has, but he can’t help to appreciate the man so much right now.

The blood carrier wipes the remaining blood off his skin with a rag after the bag has been emptied. Ben sighs in relief as the dryness in his throat completely diminishes and the painful aching in his stomach subsides. He glares up to behold the Prince’s despicable face. He can now see LaCroix's critical and pensive expression with disturbing clarity. Pure hatred seeps back into his heart with a vengeance.

“Now that your senses are back in order, I have a proposition for you.” LaCroix approaches him again and crouches down to meet Ben’s gaze face on from a safe distance. “These may be the last of your godforsaken nights, but it doesn’t have to be for your childe. If you care for her, I can arrange for her to be spared and taken under my wing. She will live her unlife in relative comfort as one of my adjutants at the Tower, and I will make sure your legacy will not be as tarnished as it will be after word of your trial gets out. All I ask for in exchange is any pertinent information on her that will make her transition easier.” His tone is soft and sullen. His silvery-gray eyes stare at him with the patient seriousness of a nun.

Ben pierces back at him with an intense glare. It takes every ounce of blood in his body not to lunge at the Prince’s throat with his teeth. “You think that’s what I’m concerned with right now? My goddamned legacy?”

“Do you not care for her? Your childe?” LaCroix is quick to retort.

“Like I can now. Go ahead and kill her. Tell the court whatever you want and kill her.” Ben snaps at him with a sudden sharp tone. He can project his voice louder now that his thirst is satiated.

LaCroix’s expression doesn’t budge. He must’ve calculated his resistance. “If you tell me nothing, the Camarilla will subject her to interrogation and torture until the night of her miserable Final Death. Do you really want that for her? Even if you don’t care for her unlife, wouldn’t you at least want her to die in some comfort? I’m the only one who can arrange that for her.”

This does nothing to quell the Scot’s anger. He doesn’t trust anyone but himself to watch over Emily and guard her through the unlife. He trusts the Prince even less out of all the others. He knows the Prince is only out to use her and abuse her for his own gains, even more so that she carries Ben’s blood. The Prince can gift her with temporary comforts and luxuries all he wants, but in the end, her fate would be worse off as one of his tools than if she had died instead.

“Doesn’t change my position. Beat her. Torture her. Kill her. Let the court do anything they want with her. Let them show her the same amount of mercy they will show me. At least her death will be quick.”

“I need your cooperation to lessen her suffering if that’s what you truly want. Otherwise, I cannot convince the court or the primogen to fulfill that wish. Once she gets passed into their hands and out of mine, I cannot control her fate.”

LaCroix slowly creeps forward towards Ben when he’s confident that Ben wouldn’t try to harm him mid statement.

“You must keep this strictly between you and me. I suspect that Strauss may have ulterior motives for her that would involve keeping her alive for experiments using your blood. That man, that _blasted_ Tremere, would not be as kind to her as I would be.”

Ben’s eye twitches. The fucking audacity of this man to tarnish one of his former mentors by insinuating he would commit such a heinous act. Not to mention, using his clan as a slur while drawing a comparison to himself. As if he thinks his own status warrants a comparison to an elder!

LaCroix’s nose is barely close enough for him to fucking snatch it. But he won’t. He’s seething in anger he can barely contain.

“Let him have her then. Even then he’d make a better guardian than you’d ever be, you fucking, two-timing, French pansy.”

LaCroix backs away slowly and shakes his head. His own anger is reappearing underneath the cracks of his controlled patience. “Time is running out, Whittaker. You can spend what you have left to continue your verbal assaults, or you can use it productively and tell me what I need to know about your beloved childe before I throw her to the Camarilla wolves.”

Ben inadvertently lets out a chuckle. In the fifty years he’s served the Camarilla and their agents, he can sense that LaCroix would love nothing more than to join that pack of vicious wolves himself. Hell, even in all the years of his Kindred existence, he has rarely seen a Ventrue as ambitious and duplicitous as he is despite his massive inexperience.

His rule is sure to fail. All of LA will crash and burn underneath him and he will die a painful death. He just doesn’t know it yet. Ben wishes he could be there to see it. Even more, he wishes to keep Emily away from this snake.

“What do you want me to say? That I picked a pretty young thing off the street who happens to have a penchant for fulfilling princely orders? Or that she’s especially good at sucking Ventrue cock? I can tell you the latter is true. Have fun with that one.” Ben is smirking at the end of his sentence. He’s sad that he has to be facetious at Emily’s expense, but the look on the Prince’s face is worth the price.

LaCroix is thrown in a shock. His eyes open wide, finally lifting the veil. He strikes Ben across the face again, this time with a sloppy loose hand out of sheer anger. Ben’s head is rocked violently to the side. He lets out a laugh despite the pain.

“I will _not_ take this vulgarity from you. Not now, not ever!” LaCroix pauses to contain himself, trying to loosen his shaking frame, scrunched up face and fists. He does this eventually, though he only partially succeeds in dispelling his full shock and rage.

“Whittaker. I don’t care if you don’t like me or don't trust me. I don’t care if you don’t believe in my rule or in the Camarilla any longer. You are effectively dead to me, as I must be to you as well. But you _must_ tell me about this childe. She is your childe, your _legendary_ childe. The entire court and all within the Camarilla are already clamoring for answers. They will tear her apart for them, _alive_ , if you don’t give me something to work with. For her sake, and for the Camarilla’s sake, just give me something of value already.”

Ben locks eyes with LaCroix and gives him an unsure look. He’s laughed off his follies and is now solely pensive. The angry French dandy wants a statement? An official statement on poor Emily? Oh, he got one for him. He’ll lap this one right up.

“You want something on Emily? Alright then. Listen to me carefully. It doesn’t matter who she is, who she was, or how she will act in the future. She will always be my childe. She has my blood. She has my abilities, my powers, my strengths, and negligible weaknesses. Even after I am gone, I will always be with her. She will never overcome my influence on her blood. If you let her live, she will set the city and the whole goddamn Camarilla on fire. You would be better off killing her as fast as possible, out of the mercy of your little black heart. Then all you will need to be concerned with is how to save face to your precious court. How you let your best agent defect from the Camarilla despite years of proven service.”

Ben doesn’t let up on his eye contact for one second, not even to blink. He watches gleefully as the Prince loses footing from his crouched position. He’s unhinging again. He’s absolutely furious.

LaCroix stands up abruptly and calls the guards to his attention. The unbridled fury in his eyes, twitching brow, and lips are a gift to Ben.

“Guards! I leave Whittaker with you all to do as you please. He must remain alive, but otherwise, show him no mercy. Beat him for all that he’s worth.” He turns on his heel and exits the prison cell with a door slam.

The four guards take their sweet time screaming expletives and beating the ever-loving shit out of him: knocking out teeth, tearing his scalp, breaking multiple bones, tenderizing his flesh into bloody pulps, among other things that his unfortunately resilient body can withstand. Eventually, some of the blows are enough to make him cry out and yelp. The beating doesn’t stop until the threat of morning forces all of them to withdraw out of the cell. 

Ben is left lying face down in a pool of his own blood. He thinks back to when he sassed the Prince on Emily’s inclinations and smiles before day sleep forcibly claims him.


	3. Execution; A Childe Spared

LaCroix had only the one chance to interrogate him before his trial, and in the eyes of his elders, he has wasted it.

A week has passed since LaCroix’s pitiful attempt at interrogating Whittaker, the man who was once the Camarilla’s best agent on the West Coast, and truly in all respects, a Ventrue beyond compare. News of his detainment had already spread throughout all of LA County and the surrounding areas, and unfortunately, so has news of his illegal Embrace. Thankfully though, the details of who the childe is have been kept contained well enough that only the Prince and his closest circles are aware of her. The gossips on the grapevine aren’t even aware of her appearance or gender.

Whittaker’s trial was swift, having taken place in front of a very small court with all primogen present. With the extent of his crime being extremely apparent with the entire court able to confirm the childe’s existence and connection to his blood within hours, Whittaker stayed silent. There was nothing neither he nor LaCroix could do to change the sentence or its terms.

The verdict was simple enough; Final Death for Whittaker and the childe, and the destruction of both their assets. It is the Prince’s responsibility to arrange for public execution and to inform all of LA’s Kindred of the decision.

For days, LaCroix has been dealing with a barrage of inquiries and comments from Kindred all across the county, ranging from questions regarding Whittaker’s crimes to demands of details on his childe, to rage-filled hate mail cursing the Camarilla for not letting Whittaker and his childe go for what seems to be a victimless crime.

The latter being a very Anarch-ian response, to be sure. But as a Camarilla Prince, he must uphold the laws that have defined their organization across the world for centuries, regardless of popular Kindred opinion. The Camarilla’s treatment of Los Angeles cannot be any different. All the city’s Kindred must come to terms with the Camarilla’s power.

For breaking one of the Camarilla’s most sacred Traditions, _Thou shall only Sire another with the permission of thine Elder,_ Benjamin Whittaker must die.

…

It is now the night of the execution. The ghouls and kine attendants had spent the day preparing the Nocturne Theatre for the occasion. He ordered nothing ornate for the somber event: only a thorough clean through the halls, stage, and chairs, so even the most distinguishing Kindred shouldn’t have much to complain about. He’s not concerned with appearances; this is, after all, an event no one would want to attend if it wasn't obligatory.

LaCroix is holding this violation of the Masquerade over the heads of every Kindred in this city as a warning, similar to how his Sheriff will soon hold the final blade over Whittaker’s sorry neck.

He sent out formal notices to every prominent Kindred leader in the city and their closest associates regardless of affiliation (minus of course, the Sabbat), urging them to attend themselves or to send replacements to bear witness for them. He sent via letters, emails, phone calls, faxes, every modern method of communication he could conceive of to guarantee a healthy attendance number.

There was of course, plenty of riff-raff and unaffiliated Kindred who were clamoring for invitations, some of whom had actually offered to pay for seats as if it’s a gladiatorial spectacle. But LaCroix being a man concerned with efficiency, preferred to focus on a smaller, more intimate group. Not one for sensationalism, as many LA Kindred unfortunately are, he would much rather not make of a showcase of Whittaker and his childe’s private killings.

As per any planned event, there will no doubt be absences. And there is no doubt in his mind that he will hold any Kindred who somehow _forgets_ this Tradition in the future, regardless if they're aware of this event or not, with extreme scrutiny and cruelty. He hopes this was conveyed well enough in the notice.

An hour before the curtains open, the Prince arrives at the theater. He’s let in through the backdoor accompanied by armed guards and the Sheriff who has his massive sword secured in its sheath. He asks to be led into the back room where the prisoners are being held.

Backstage, there are two hastily prepared dressing rooms, one for each prisoner. He enters the one designated for Whittaker’s childe, the woman named Emily Boucher. He had only seen her a few times briefly for seconds at a time since her capture, and in photographs of her kine life in her file. His curiosity pushes him to take a longer, in-depth view of the woman Whittaker had sired.

LaCroix enters the room alone and shuts the door behind him. He flickers on the lamp to illuminate the room in a soft incandescent glow. He sees the woman lying in a cot that was set out for her. She’s on her back with her head leaning to the side, her arms resting on her torso. She had been placed and posed like a body at a wake. The stake that was used to subdue her is still lodged in her chest. Since she was nude when his agents had found her (as read in the report), his female subordinates had her dressed in a loose-fitting dress with a deep-V neckline that could be draped over her shoulders and around her chest wound. LaCroix is too polite to check how else they had the body dressed, even if it’s to see if she’s truly ready to be presented to an audience, so when he sees a pair of plain slip-on shoes on her feet, he leaves it at that.

He pulls up a chair to sit by her cot-side and turns her head to face him. Boucher looks just as she does in her old photos, except here she no longer possesses the flush, beige color of life. Her skin is cold, dry, and a sickly gray tone, such as a recently dead corpse should have. Her lips are dry and nearly cracking from not having any sustenance in a week, and the blue veins in her face are highly visible on her forehead and sullen cheeks. But aside from her weakened state, he finds her lovely. Her features are soft and traditionally feminine. A plain yet timeless beauty. Whittaker wasn’t lying when he said he found her beautiful, but other than that there’s not much else on the surface for LaCroix to go by. For days, he stared at her underwhelming file and contemplated for hours why Whittaker would choose her to pass on his dark gift to when there are far more qualified candidates with stronger aesthetics to choose from.

Her file tells him nothing about her personality, dreams, and ambitions, or even her mannerisms. Was there something about how this woman acted and carried herself that captivated Whittaker? Was there something that she said or did that convinced him to take a chance on her? Was she a pawn for a sinister scheme that required a woman of her specific archetype, or perhaps, was Whittaker a big enough fool that fell in love with a kine woman?

Of course, he can’t tell just by looking at her which one of these scenarios is the most probable. If only Whittaker wasn’t such a stubborn fool and would tell him what was special about this woman. There must be _something_ , anything, he can use as an angle to further his cause as newly crowned Prince of this damned city.

Whittaker’s death would cause a tremendous loss not only for the LA Camarilla, but also towards the goodwill of their clan, and the memories of all Kindred who’ve known him country and worldwide. News of his death will ring out across Kindred society for years to come and would leave an unwashable black stain on LaCroix’s regime for as long as it exists.

Even if his actions are justified, even if he has every excuse within the Camarilla doctrine to rationalize his execution, LaCroix will lose. He will lose his agent. The Camarilla will lose a highly valued, upstanding member. Powerful Kindred across the globe will lose their good faith in LaCroix, putting every blame on him for letting Whittaker drift so far from the Camarilla.

He is in a precarious position. His only saving grace for his reputation lies in the last remnant of Whittaker’s power: this hapless childe. If only he wasn’t limited by the will of the elders to conduct his own investigation. If only he could wake her up beforehand, to figure her out, mold her into-

A series of loud knocks interrupts his train of thought.

“Prince LaCroix? It’s time to prepare the stage. May we enter to take the childe?” A female assistant’s voice is heard on the other side of the door. The Prince stands up to attention and moves the chair back to its original position. He opens the door and nods to the short Toreador woman across the threshold. He waits for her pertinent nod back before leaving for the stage. In his peripheral vision, he sees a flurry of Kindred walking in and out to drag Whittaker and Boucher’s bodies out of their rooms as he walks away.

He pulls up his sleeve to examine his watch; five minutes til start. Right on schedule.

As he sets foot on the rickety stage, he spots his Sheriff who's already there with his sword out of the sheath and hanging off a loose leather holster on his back. Its blade is gargantuan in width and thickness, almost as long as the man himself. It’s a rather impressive weapon he had custom made with folded tempered steel that gleams a strong white glow in the spotlight. The Sheriff eyes the Prince as he makes his way to the center of the stage, attentive and focused as always.

He looks out towards the audience and sees a varied group of Kindred present. The turnout is larger than expected. To the left are the Anarchs, comprising Nines Rodriguez, the de facto leader of the Downtown Anarchs, Therese Voerman, the Baron of Santa Monica, Isaac Abrahms, the Baron of Hollywood, and their respective associates. A sizable group of over a dozen individuals. Most are sitting, several others are standing in the back by the doorway. To the right are representatives of the seven Camarilla clans, most of whom are associates of the primogen who are closely familiar with Whittaker. Out of the original city’s primogen, only Strauss is present, sitting in his own box seat.

Everyone has their eyes on LaCroix as he faces the audience. No one is pleased to see him. Most of their glowing eyes focus on him with a harsh severity. Some of the Anarchs are even openly scowling at him. Rodriguez, who is sitting a little too close in the front, is accompanied by two others who are showing their utter disdain towards him.

His lack of positive reception neither bothers nor surprises him, although he is still grateful that this event will be a brief affair.

Without another moment to spare, his guards enter the stage with Whittaker and Boucher tied and bound around their wrists, ankles, and across the mouth. The stakes in their chests had been removed and they’re both fully awake and conscious. The guards place them on their knees a fair distance apart from each other, both for the sake of presentation and to ensure neither of them can reach each other to escape. The audience eyes both of them precariously, darting between the two of them in equal measures. Aside for the sounds of dragging bodies, the room is in absolute silence.

After they get situated in their spots, Whittaker turns his head to face Boucher, who looks back at him with a wide-eyed, frightened expression. When she tries to scream out through the gag, a guard pulls on her hair and scalp violently, causing her to yelp before being forced into silence. She shakes like a leaf, straining her face from the pain and immense fear. She looks as if she desperately wants to cry, but no tears can fall. She darts her eyes one last time towards Whittaker, who then assures her with a light blue glow from his eyes. Eventually, the woman calms down and loosens her entire body, sinking into the ground and seemingly giving into her circumstance. She stares out into the crowd absentmindedly. The crowd stares at her intently at the edge of their seats. There is only silence. Several audience members appear shocked, concerned, pitying, and even confused. Except for Rodriguez, who’s now visibly seething in anger.

LaCroix can’t be sure what Whittaker intended with such a weak Dominate attempt. He can only guess that whatever Whittaker did influenced her to make less of a scene, to be quiet and docile and accept her fate, refusing the audience the drama they came to see. He soon follows in her stead and remains still and quiet with his neck down, eyes facing the ground. Unlike her, he refuses to acknowledge the crowd in front of him. LaCroix is secretly grateful for Whittaker’s actions.

It’s the first time LaCroix is seeing Boucher move in the flesh. When she was struggling on her own accord, there was a surprising amount of emotion and willpower coming from her desperate actions. It was as if she knew she’s attending her own execution, despite not being told anything when she woke minutes prior and sought to fight with every hint of fire left in her tired, starving frame. In the past, he had seen other childer in similar positions appear confused and fidgety, but never desperate and fighting. It was only when Whittaker dominated her into complacency when she acted more in line with her doe-eyed appearance as if she was being made to play the “correct” part in this convoluted play.

LaCroix is lost in thought for a moment. On her own, the woman seems to know more than she let on, even minutes into being conscious in her new unlife. Either Whittaker had dominated her before just minutes prior to inform her of what was happening, or his blood is already affecting her sense of perception. She’s only been Kindred for a short time, and she’s already proving herself to be unusual. Maybe perhaps, even memorable.

After a brief silence, he snaps back into attention. The stage has been set, and it’s now time to begin the act. He turns to the crowd.

“Good evening. My fellow Kindred,” His voice rings out in echos from the center of the stage. All eyes are on him now. The spotlight shines brightly in his eyes. “My apologies for disrupting any business, or interfering with prior engagements you may have had this evening.”

The Prince commands the stage like an actor. He paces back and forth on the stage, using Whittaker and Boucher as markers as he lectures the crowd on the importance of the Traditions and the necessity of having the Camarilla as a governing body to protect Kindred-kind, even if it means enforcing crimes with the promise of Final Death as a punishment.

“It pains me to announce the sentence, as up to tonight, I considered the accused a loyal and upstanding member of our organization.”

He walks behind Whittaker’s slouching body to bring attention to the disgraced man. For a minute, he feels a singe of pride knowing he’s above the Ventrue who was once beyond compare, physically and in status.

“The penalty for this transgression… is death. Know that I am no more a judicator than I am a servant to the law that governs us all.”

The shorter man kneels down to Whittaker who’s still refusing to turn his head and gaze upon anyone or anything that isn’t the stage floor. LaCroix places a hand on his shoulder as a false indicator of good faith.

“Forgive me.”

Whittaker tightens his fists behind his back. He murmurs something indistinguishable from behind his gag. LaCroix can’t make out the words, but he can still hear a spiteful, angry tone from his breath. He can never make a perfect guess, but he imagines Whittaker telling him something damning:

_You will pay for this LaCroix. You’re going straight to hell._

LaCroix is slightly shaken. He rises on his feet and steps away. He gestures at a guard, who then grabs Whittaker’s hair and pulls his head outwards to stretch his neck. The Sheriff steps into place and readies his sword above his head.

“Let the penalty commence.”

In one fell swoop, the sword falls. The edge passes through his neck effortlessly and quickly detaches him from his shoulders. Whittaker’s head drops unceremoniously onto the ground before rolling down into the orchestral pit. Spurts of blood erupt from the open wound and land as far as off stage. Some of the closest audience members turn their heads and wince in disgust.

Boucher, who was made to face her former sire as an example, widens her eyes and her lips but cannot react any further. She’s back to being frightened, but more petrified than reactive this time.

Surprised murmurs fill the crowd. Many on the Camarilla side are visibly upset, hiding their faces or hanging their heads low, stricken by sorrow, anger, and confusion. Soft cries can be heard from certain individuals. Most on the Anarch side are more indifferent or angry than sad. One individual loudly jeers with a comment he feels is unwarranted.

“He didn’t deserve that, you Cammy fuck!”

Several members from both sides react to the jeering by turning their heads. LaCroix chooses not to react.

The one who seems to have the strongest reaction out of everyone is Nines Rodriguez, who’s openly bearing his fangs and strongly clenching his armrests. His two compatriots, as well as the Prince’s guards, are keeping a tight eye on him.

The sputters of blood take an astonishingly long time to cease. Then what remains of his body deteriorates quickly until all that is left is dust and his material belongings.

LaCroix fixates on the clothes and ashes on the ground. Benjamin Whittaker, the renowned Ventrue agent, known for his service to the Camarilla for over two-hundred years across multiple continents, known for his strength, vigor, and previous dedication to the cause, is no more. His absence is already immediately felt in the theater; a dark void is cast upon the stage despite the intense lighting.

The Los Angeles Camarilla will never be the same. The organization is already weakened and made less capable in LaCroix’s hands.

The guard walks over to the Boucher next to pull her neck out for the blade. She shows no resistance.

“Which leads to the fate of the ill-begotten progeny...”

He walks over to behind Boucher next. He feels no pride from standing above her, despite her only being a lowly illegal childe. His thoughts on her are still conflicted. Her death is not his first choice; he wishes he had more time to figure her out and exact his own judgment, as opposed to the blind one he’s encouraged to enforce as part of his duty to the Camarilla.

She is a hapless fledgling who’s easy to kill. Her loss would not affect him personally or anyone else in the theater. But could she make up for-

“ **This is bullshit!”**

Rodriguez shouts out to interrupt the current course of action. He leaps out from his chair and lunges for the stage. The two Anarchs beside him hold him back as the stage guards ready their weapons in his direction.

His eyes lock onto Boucher’s on the stage as she looks back in surprise. His expression shows a firey determination; for what, LaCroix has no way of knowing. Not once does Rodriguez focus on anything else on the stage, including the sires’ remains or the Prince himself.

Audible murmurs fill the seats before more members stand defiantly. The voices become less hushed and more escalated in a matter of seconds. Soon, nearly all the Anarchs are standing and chanting in agreement with Rodriguez. _You didn’t have to kill him! This is bullshit!_ The Camarilla side is recoiling and moving further towards the wall and exit. The Prince’s adjutants from the front of the house and backstage are rushing in to contain the situation.

“...If Mr. Rodriguez would let me finish.” LaCroix declares despite the ruckus. The voices quiet down, though no one fully loses their guard. His eyes and his exposition brightens up.

An opportunity has presented itself he can use to his advantage. Surely, the court and the primogen can forgive him if the Anarchs are up in arms over this woman...

“I have decided to let this Kindred live.”

On unspoken command, the armed men cut the bindings from her feet, wrists, and mouth. The woman crumples to the ground with her head down and hands across her chest to cover her exposed wound. She doesn’t dare make a sound.

The Prince briefly explains how the childe will be taken in by him and will be made to act as any other member of the Camarilla would. A slight lie.

Confused mumbles and sounds of awkward shuffling fill the crowd until her savior Rodriguez holds a hand up to silence the group. He is the first to turn away and lead his coterie out with him.

LaCroix concludes his speech by thanking the audience and bidding them farewell. He gestures for attendants to open the exit gate and direct the crowd towards outside. The Kindred working backstage close the curtains over the stage.

“Take her to the dressing room. I wish to speak to her privately. Bring in a blood pack as well.”

A guard lifts Boucher by the arms and drags her backstage, away from prying eyes. While no longer under the effects of Whittaker’s Dominate, she still limps in the guard’s arms in absolute weakness. LaCroix gives them a second to move first before directly following behind them. He waits for the guard to set her down on a chair in the room and for a second assistant to bring in a blood pack before entering.

The frazzled woman sits in the chair with her head down in a daze, as if she’s recovering from an intense spin. LaCroix crouches down slightly to gently pick her chin up with his right hand.

Her eyes are a cloudy dark brown, her pupils white from the lack of blood. She looks at him with a puzzled, confused expression. She parts her lips as if to speak, only to not mutter a sound. He sees a hint of her fangs from past her lips.

“Do you have any understanding of what you are now?” He tests her. It’s his first time speaking to her in person, the first opportunity to probe what she knows and doesn’t know. He shouldn’t be, but he’s slightly nervous.

She shakes her head with his hand still on her chin. She doesn't know she's Kindred. A fair starting point.

“All will be explained in due time. Allow me to show you the basics.” He grabs the blood pack that was left on the side table with his other hand and rips the bottom tab with his teeth. He moves his hand from her chin to the back of her head and caresses her hair. It’s dry and brittle to the touch.

He brings the pack to her mouth and gestures for her to drink. At his urging, she wraps her lips to its opening and slowly sucks in the contents. He squeezes the middle of the pack to encourage more of it to reach her. He watches intently as she tastes the fluid and increases her drinking rate. Soon, a lively glow appears on her face and she appears to savor the vitae. The wound on her chest heals and closes rapidly. Then she suddenly grabs the bag with both hands and hungrily devours the rest until the bag is nothing but bare plastic.

When she finally releases her mouth’s grip on the bag, she breathes in deeply and coughs violently; it’s her first real breath a week. Her body has already forgotten how to consciously process breaths. LaCroix places both hands on her shoulders to stabilize her through the coughing fit.

Eventually, she recovers and looks directly back at him. Her eyes are now a healthy dark chocolate color and her skin is brighter with more pigment. There is even a slight pink blush over the apples of her cheeks and her lips. Her expression is still as puzzled and confused as ever.

“How do you feel?” LaCroix asks calmly.

“Good.” Boucher replies softly under what’s left of her breath. Her voice is low, husky, and sultry for a woman.

“Are you able to recall the event that had just taken place?” He demands from her. Recovering from a minor Dominate attempt as a starved fledgling can be taxing, but there’s so much he needs from her that he can’t wait.

“Yes. Ben was killed. I was next. But then you pulled back.” She tells him simply, very matter-of-factly. Her expression remains blank. It’s almost unsettling.

“Correct. Do you recall why?” He tightens his grip on her shoulders. She turns her head to the left to look down at his hand. When he follows her eye down to her arm, he inadvertently catches a glimpse of her partially bare chest. The deep-V is perhaps too deep for decency's sake, but aside from that, he finds the view pleasant. He snaps his view back up to eye level out of politeness.

“Not really. Governing laws? But... nothing I know? I was in the public sector.” The brunette woman tilts her head to the side and darts her eyes to the side. She’s unsure.

LaCroix hums. He doesn’t expect her to understand a soliloquy meant for Kindred with at least a baseline knowledge of their nightly society.

“Ms. Boucher. Listen to me. As of tonight, you can no longer live your normal life. You belong to the Camarilla now. _The Camarilla_ ; remember that name. In a short while, you will be transported to a secure location where my people and I will run everything by you and teach you what you need to learn to survive. It is _important_ that you learn to cooperate and learn as much as you can once you recover from your stupor. Do I make myself clear?” He runs this by her slowly and patiently, with every word carefully spoken with special emphasis on certain words.

“The Camarilla...” She says sluggishly.

“Yes. I am their leader. Do you hear me?” He jostles her by the shoulders.

“LaCroix. Sebastian LaCroix.” The words leave her lips with a certain wispiness that makes it sound like a song.

He's shocked. Which one of his associates told her his name without his title? “Yes, that is my full name. Who told you?”

“Ben told me. He says, you’re going to hell, LaCroix.” The warning seems to escape from her lips without impunity.

LaCroix pushes against her forcefully and backs away in a panic. He’s livid, absolutely livid. Her listless stare mocks him still, and he can’t help but curse her incessantly in his mind.

He wants to kill her. _Dear god_ he wants to kill her. He should’ve killed her. Did he just make a mistake? It wouldn’t be hard to wring her neck with his bare hands-

He turns and exits the room, slamming the door on the way out. He takes a series of deep breaths and buries his face in his hands.

Boucher is definitely Whittaker’s childe. LaCroix needs to remember that he foolishly gave him an opportunity to dominate her and sneak that unpleasant thought into her head. The thought is not her own. He reminds himself that once she comes around, once she shakes off that intrusive thought from herself, she will regain her reason and rationality. She will be more pleasant to work with. Become malleable.

And if not, she will be easy to dispose of.

He has to take this chance on her. If he can form her into what he needs for the city, she will be his saving grace.

“Take her away. Prepare her a room on the Upper Floor.” The Prince commands the short Toreador from before to make the arrangements. She nods and gets to work right away.

LaCroix needs to head back to the Tower by himself and end the night with a stiff drink.


	4. Face to Face

The night is quiet for once. The second to last meeting had just concluded, and there is only the Prince and his eternally silent Sheriff left in the office now. With an hour until sunrise, LaCroix gestures the Sheriff to help him close the curtains for the massively tall windows. He doesn’t expect his last meeting to take long, but the reassurance sets his mind at ease somewhat.

He pulls a flask out of his coat pocket and takes a swig. He’s too tired to bother himself asking an assistant for a glass or a blood doll. The flask is quicker; less potent and less satiating, but still quicker and less bothersome. He tips his head back as he empties the full contents into his mouth, clearing it with one gulp. He feels the burning warmth of alcohol spiked blood trickle down his throat and settle in his stomach. It gives him much-needed comfort.

It’s been several weeks since Whittaker’s execution and the pardoning of his childe. Since that very night, LaCroix has been hounded by paperwork and meetings associated with the accidental acquisition. As expected, the elders and primogen were displeased with his hasty decision and have extended their full disdain to the rest of the court. Members of the Camarilla across LA have been hounding him at every given moment every night, some in agreement and many in disagreement with his actions. LaCroix has repeated his answers so many times he could record them on a tape recorder and cover eighty percent of the following night’s questions.

LaCroix wakes up every night with self-pity and dread. He can’t get anything else done after all the empty words and gestures. He knows of everyone’s interest in the new fledgling. He knows everyone knows the answers to the most basic questions. He knows everyone knows he will not and cannot reverse his decision. And yet they continue to pester him with needless inquiries and commentary.

But even though it all, he’s adamant in proving he’s right, by proving the childe’s worth.

LaCroix had the Ventrue fledgling taken in by his Ventrue adjutants in the Tower, where she has been held since the night of trial. His instructions to his associates were very clear: keep the woman secured and instruct her on the basics of Kindred, their nightly society, and the ways of their clan. While she is a liability to the court, she is ultimately a Ventrue, and must not be allowed to make a mockery of the Prince or the Masquerade by being released prematurely.

Most within the organization were quick to obey his orders. There were a select few who took offense to the initiative and sought to fight it, calling his ruling a mistake and a disgrace. He had these dissenters dealt with. Harshly.

He needed everyone in his organization to be able to execute his orders without questions or supervision. He has no patience for those who would openly oppose him in his own court, and less for those whose loyalty he has to second guess. The “disappearances” of certain Kindred were made to make that clear.

The Prince, while not directly involved in his fledgling’s training or wellbeing, has kept close tabs on her from a distance. From his reports, he has seen that she has done exceedingly well, learning and recalling the Traditions and Camarilla etiquette at an impressive rate. Her ability to pick up on Kindred abilities and clan disciplines is also noteworthy.

It puts a smile on his face. He must remember to congratulate and reward his associates well for their achievements.

But first, he must meet with the fledgling to assess her himself. His curiosity has grown over the past several weeks and he needs to see her in person again. He needs to know if his original assessment true, that with Whittaker’s blood she can grow to be his close equivalent while retaining loyalty to the Camarilla.

She is his last meeting for the night. LaCroix sits himself down and drums his fingers on the desk in anticipation. Mild anxiety fills his chest as he watches the minute hand on his watch tick down. She should be in shortly.

The doors to his office open right on the dot. The fledgling Emily Boucher stands at the center of the doorway as two associates part the heavy doors. Her appearance is clean and polished, likely styled by a Toreador, with tight brunette curls and light neutral-tone makeup to cover her corpse-like skin. Her attire is simple and elegant; a floor-length brown dress with long sleeves paired with brown heels. Her presentation is that of a classic Ventrue.

The woman angles her chin up and takes her time admiring the view of his office. Not long after his induction to court, LaCroix had the space rebuilt to reflect his historical French origins. The walls are lined in white, gold-gilded Rococo-style panels that shine and glisten against the warm indoor light. Mounted high on the walls are historical paintings depicting various scenes of war and conquest; all original pieces he paid hefty sums for from auctions and private sales. At the center is a massive chandelier adorned with many flame-shaped bulbs in place of actual candles, all glistening with crystals and more gold.

From afar, he can see her awe-filled expression, doe-like eyes, and parted lips denoting her inexperience and relative innocence to the ruthless world of Kindred-kind.

He is annoyed that she hasn’t addressed him upon entering. But he can forgive her just this once.

“Ms. Boucher,” he calls out to her in a loud voice that reaches the far-side of the room. She quickly brings her attention to him. “Come forward.”

The woman nods her head and promptly walks forward. Her gait is straight and proper with very light footing. Even while wearing heels, her strides are narrow with her feet close together. It’s as if she’s conscious of making her presence known.

When she reaches a respectable distance from his desk, she bows her head and curtsies.

“Good evening, Prince LaCroix.” She greets him. Her voice is soft and courteous.

“You may be seated.” He tells her. She pulls up the chair across from him and takes a seat. Her sitting posture is also proper: back straight, legs tightly closed and hands resting on her lap. She makes direct eye contact with him with open and attentive eyes. Her etiquette is impeccable.

“Ms. Boucher, I must commend you for your progress as of late. My associates have informed me that you’ve done well in your studies and have impressed many of your tutors. Not many in your position would have done quite as well in such a short amount of time.” He begins with a simple compliment, a small gesture to break the ice.

“Thank you, my Prince. I have you to thank for the opportunity.” She answers plainly. A bare minimum response that wastes no time. Her expression gives him no clues on her true state of mind.

“How have you been faring these past several weeks? Are you adapting well to your circumstances?” He asks her. It’s almost a needless question since he trusts his associates’ reports well enough. But, if there’s even a hint of doubt in her answer, it could help lead him to some sort of revelation. Something he could use to better control her. Lead her down to the path he needs her to follow.

“Very well, sir. I have a good grasp of what I have become and what is expected of me by the Camarilla. The clan has treated me very well and I have learned a great deal from my tutors.” She answers truthfully, with no joy or enthusiasm in her voice. Again, a neutral answer.

“What exactly do you mean by ‘what I have become’?” He asks.

“My... transformation into Kindred, sir. A vampire.” She furrows her brow as she hesitates. A vulnerability. “I admit I’m... still coming to terms with the loss of my human life, sir. I had no idea there was such a thing as life after death.” She darts her eyes to the side for a mere second before turning back. She’s skeptical. In disbelief.

“Do not treat it as a spiritual revelation, Ms. Boucher. It can be considered a curse yes, but nothing otherworldly I can assure you. The Camarilla does not take stock in any religious or superstitious rhetoric. Vampirism is simply a condition that grants its users tremendous amounts of power, given it is handled responsibly. All you need to be concerned with is continuing your work with the clan and doing your part to uphold the Masquerade. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” She looks down for a second as she nods her head. She’s disappointed and perhaps a little sad. Time to press her further.

“When we last spoke, we very briefly discussed your trial and the ramifications of your sire’s actions. Do you remember this conversation?” He leans forward on his desk towards the fledgling who opens her eyes wide in alert fear.

“O-Only parts of it, sir. All I remember is-” She hesitates to speak and her voice shakes. “I-I am terribly sorry for that remark, my Prince. I... was not in the right state of mind.”

LaCroix narrows his eyes. _You’re going to hell, LaCroix._ The thought still haunts him like a bad dream. But he knows he can’t hold the woman accountable for Whittaker’s spiteful spell. “I am aware of that, Ms. Boucher. Perhaps you were not aware of it at the time, but you were brainwashed by your sire shortly before his execution. I cannot hold you responsible for whatever harmful rhetoric he forced into your head. But nonetheless, I accept your apology.” He locks his eyes on the woman more deeply. Her dark brown eyes are muted in color, almost entirely devoid of life. She’s exhausted and thirsty.

A small wash of relief washes over her worried face. “Thank you, sir. It was... a confusing night for me. I remember having a small conversation with him on that stage, somehow. In my mind. It calmed me down, but also cleared me of my thoughts. I was told I was... dominated.” Her eyes show signs of confusion.

“Correct. The Dominate discipline is a defining trait of the Ventrue. Your sire was quite adept at it. As am I. And as you will be in due time.” His voice goes a little softer as he assures her. He appreciates when his subjects make correct assumptions.

“Onto the topic of your sire. I am sure you are fully aware by now of the severity of his crimes. Shortly after your Embrace, I had my agents scour his apartment and belongings for any clues regarding his intentions for the siring. While we have yet to find any evidence, I shirk thinking what his intentions were for you if he hadn’t been caught.” LaCroix tightens his hand underneath the desk. He still harbors a deep dislike for the man despite being the one to execute his death. “I suspect he was planning to defect from the Camarilla and wanted a childe to aid him in... what would likely be violent activity towards the organization and other Kindred kind.”

Boucher looks down in shame. “That’s a serious accusation. But I understand why he had to be captured.” Her eyes dart upwards and her hands tense up. She’s lying. She has doubts.

“Look at me.” LaCroix raises his hand and gestures for her to look back at him. She snaps back to meet his eye contact. “I need you to tell me if there’s anything you know that might lead to a concrete answer. Has he hinted at or told you anything about what he wanted to do with you in the future?” She looks frightened, unsure.

“Well...” Boucher stumbles on her words. She’s not used to being put on the spot. “I-I think I... vaguely remember him mentioning being unhappy with his work? He wanted to quit and move East, I believe.” She intertwines her fingers together and squeezes tightly. “He said nothing of involving me in his plans.”

“Do you remember his exact words in that instance?” Her answer piqued his interest.

“Ahh, I must confess. This was during one of his rants. I… had a hard time understanding him.” She tilts her head, trying to recall the memory.

“And why would that be?” LaCroix’s words are short and pointed. He thinks he knows exactly what she’s referring to.

“Well... whenever he got angry in private, he often slipped back into his old mannerisms. He told me he grew up in Scotland and was proud of his origins. I... always struggle to understand him when he uses his old accent. I can only pick up some words.”

“Let me guess... was his rant also expletive-laden and full of vulgarities?”

She nods unhappily. “Yes...”

LaCroix scoffs and shakes his head. Of course Whittaker would. The man had no restraint on expressing his displeasure towards him. He’s ashamed on Emily’s behalf that he couldn’t keep his lack of tact and boorishness away from a woman so polite and well put together. “Aside from his… excessive language, did you pick up on any important names? Locations, names of individuals?”

“No, sir. The most I could discern was that he was going to take a car and drive East. Leave his life in LA behind and everyone else in it.” Boucher peers her head down for a second. She’s deep in thought, concerned.

He can’t help but watch her face as one of her curls unravels by her cheek. She is gentle, effortlessly elegant, and gracious. For a Ventrue fledgling, _his_ Ventrue fledgling, she is exquisite. He takes a moment to snap back to the present.

LaCroix finds her response satisfactory. He’s convinced for now that Whittaker was careful enough not to expose himself as either Kindred or a Camarilla agent to Boucher, despite his many outbursts. “That’s enough for now. We will continue the investigation another night.”

LaCroix pulls up his sleeve to reveal his watch. Sunrise is approaching in fifteen minutes. He has to end this meeting quickly.

Boucher, upon seeing this gesture, raises her hand meekly. “Excuse me, Prince LaCroix,” her tone changes to an anxious one. “If time still permits, may I ask about my sire?”

Her question engages his curiosity. He sighs and leans back in his chair. “You may.”

“I know nothing of my sire apart from what he had told me as kine. Are you able to explain to me, briefly, who he was as Kindred?” She puts on her most polite voice, one that wouldn’t gain her any scorn even if he were to refuse her answer. Luckily for her, he’s feeling charitable tonight.

“I suppose I can spare a minute. Your sire, Benjamin Whittaker, was a Ventrue of great renown who had served the Camarilla for over two hundred years. He was sired in the British Isles and served there for most of his unlife before moving to Americas in the mid-40s. He served as an outstanding field agent, executing orders and undergoing missions in name of the Camarilla across the country. His last station was here in LA serving the primogen who permanently reside here. Naturally, when I rose to power, I took him in as one of my most trusted associates to serve me and the LA Camarilla exclusively. Until at some point, as you well know, he diverged from his path. If he hadn’t chosen to do so, he would’ve had a bright future ahead of him.” LaCroix grips his fist tightly on the desk. Boucher’s expression turns nervous.

Upon seeing this, he relaxes his hand and pulls his watch back into his sleeve. “You must wonder what your sire’s fate and his previous role in the organization has to do with your current circumstances. I’m about to clarify this for you in terms I hope you will find agreeable, considering my predicament. Several weeks ago, I had to dispatch one of my best agents and deal with the fallout of having a critical vacancy in my staff. While it was originally the court’s order to have you face the same treatment as your sire, I had a different course set for you. “

LaCroix folds his hands on top of the desk and leans forward. He speaks softly and slowly to break the news to her as delicately as possible.

“I had decided that it was best to spare your life. Not out of generosity, but out of opportunity for you to transcend the fate woven by your sire. Under the stipulation that you will work to be his suitable replacement.”

Boucher widens her eyes in equal parts awe and dread. This doesn’t surprise him. He doesn’t expect the fledgling to grasp the importance of her situation at first mention. “H-his replacement? W-what… what would that entail?”

“Your missions will vary depending on the needs of the Camarilla and on the city’s affairs. But generally speaking, you will work as a field agent. You will operate directly on the front lines with little to no supervision. Aside from any stipulations I may place on you, you will be free to complete your tasks in any manner you wish, granted you do not violate my terms or the Masquerade.”

The woman frowns. She’s visibly upset, and understandably so. Nothing in the profile gathered by his agents has shown an aptitude in handling Whittaker’s form of work. Even as Kindred, the odds of her survivability are greatly stacked against her. LaCroix knows he’s taking a hefty gamble in putting her out on the field, and he knows she’s smart enough to realize this. “But sir-”

“It is not up to negotiation, Ms. Boucher.” He replies sharply, his voice like a twisting knife. “I can sense your lack of belief in my judgment, and while we’ve only just met, I find it disgraceful and unbecoming of you.” Boucher’s chest lurches forward, and she peers away from his gaze in embarrassment.

“I am not so foolish as to leave you unprepared for the road ahead. A significant part of your studies will include combat and survival training. The Camarilla cannot afford to have a sireless caitiff roaming the streets without some tutelage, and I even less so. You will do well to find as much success as you can in the limited time I have to provide. Your first mission is already being planned, and if you do not perform as expected with the generous amount of resources I’m offering, you will only have yourself to blame. Do I make myself clear?”

The younger Ventrue nods. She is still nervous, and her concerns haven’t been completely eased. She struggles to keep her face from cracking into despair. She keeps her chin up and her eye contact steady despite it all. “Yes, my Prince. I will not let you down.”

“Excellent. You may take your leave then. Enjoy your morning rest, Ms. Boucher.”

She nods again. “Thank you, sir. You as well.” She rises from the chair and leaves promptly for the elevator. Her walking pace is faster than before and her stride is wider. She can’t wait to get out of here as fast as possible.

LaCroix waits until she disappears past the double doors to rise out of his chair. The Prince takes in a heavy breath and exhales to relieve the tension in his chest. He had hoped to gather some reassurance that setting the fledgling up as Whittaker’s replacement was a worthwhile investment, but instead, he has likely doomed her. He had hoped to see a spark within her, the same fire that Whittaker once had. But instead, he sees a soft and timid fledgling. A beautiful, hapless woman. The total opposite of the ruthless brute Whittaker was.

It’s too late to turn back now. Whether she lives or dies, he will not allow his decision to keep her alive to hinder his confidence as Prince. He will persevere and endure, even if she cannot.


	5. Faulty Image

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emily finally gets a POV! A short angsty interlude before the next big scene. 🙌

It’s yet another evening in Venture Tower. Emily opens her eyes to the familiar view of a bed canopy above her. Even in darkness, she can still trace the elaborate and decorative wood etchings on the canopy ceiling with her eyes.

Emily lies in bed feeling cold and unfamiliar in her body. She cannot feel her heartbeat or her lungs fill with air, as her body no longer possesses a need or desire for them. She has no pain or tenseness anywhere; it makes her feel as light as air. She takes a considerable amount of effort to rise from bed, with her having to wait for her nerves to recover from their temporary paralysis.

She has to remind herself that she is awake and that she is here; not in a dream or a nightmare, but here, in a room on the physical plane.

There is a gnawing emptiness in her chest, a painful cramping that tenses up every muscle by her sternum. She knows after experiencing this countless times now that it’s the hunger for raw blood. If she doesn’t grab something to drink soon, the pain will threaten to take her under.

After pitching herself up, she looks to her left. There’s a digital alarm clock on a nightstand that reads 7:04 pm, just minutes after sundown. It’s a recurring habit of hers: waking up most nights when the sun is barely past the horizon. She lifts the heavy quilted blanket off of her and steps down from the bed. Her silk pajamas cling to her skin in a fit of static; she smooths the lush fabric down with her hands and feels it crackle underneath her. She walks to the light switch close by and flips it on.

Bright incandescent light illuminates the room. She examines the surrounding area to better situate herself. She’s in a large room connected to a bathroom and an entrance door. The room is decorated in a Rococo-inspired style with white paneled walls, all wooden furniture, and more drapery than she can account for. The scene would be a perfect historical replica of an 18th-century French bedroom if not marred by necessary technological fittings, such as the aforementioned digital clock, a wired telephone, and a small refrigerator.

She reaches down to the fridge to take out an unlabeled blood bag, tears the bottom with her teeth, and drinks its contents. It’s bland and unsatisfying, like stale tap water. Just weeks ago at the start of her residency, she once found the bagged vitae to be savory and filling, full of body and flavor, a delicious life-giving nectar she had to stop herself from devouring too much of in a single night. But now, as she’s settling into her new body, the pre-packaged vitae means nothing to her except as a means to avoid total starvation.

She crumples up the empty bag in her hand and tosses it into the nearest bin.

After her meal, her pain is gone, and now in its place is a pervasive lust for more blood. Better blood. Fresher blood. It claws at the back of her throat and into her mind. She needs to find a way to ask, eloquently somehow, if she can get a better source of blood. Soon. Very soon.

She moves to the bathroom and flickers on the lights. The bathroom is relatively new compared to the main room, as is necessary to hold modern plumbing fixtures, though the walls and tiling still match the color scheme and opulence of the main room. There’s a gold-framed mirror with a marble counter and a sink she frequently uses.

She examines her reflection as she does every night. Ever since her first night here, she’s noticed her face and body change night-by-night. She’s seen herself slip from a slightly sick, stuck-with-a-cold human paleness, to what she sees before her now.

Her skin is almost transparent and thin, a light gray tone with visible blue veins running underneath. Pools of black blemishes line her cheeks, forehead, and jaw where healthy flushes of pink used to be. Deep, black bags under her eyes and cracked dry lips make her look forever tired. A cloudy white film covers her dark eyes and her brunette hair looks brittle enough to break on its own.

She doesn’t recognize herself. If not for her facial features, she would deny the image in the mirror as being her. It’s disgusting. Heart wrenching.

She looks like a white corpse on the brink of second death.

The Emily Boucher she once knew died several weeks ago. In that upscale apartment with a man she thought she could trust. Benjamin took her into his arms and stole her away from what could’ve been an average, human existence. She curses him under her breath for turning her into this... monster. For betraying her trust and robbing her of everything.

She was never going to be an extraordinary woman. She knows this. Even if she’d made it to New York, she would’ve been more than willing to jump back into the mundane. Land herself a generic office job and blend into obscurity.

But at least she would still be alive. She would still be human and breathing. She would have control over her life.

Instead, he killed her. And then she woke up to become this... creature. This sickly, blood-drinking creature.

At a theater was where she saw him last, both of them tied up and bound. She had a massive wound on her chest and a horrible, cramping pain where her heart used to be. The first thing she witnessed as she opened her eyes was an unknown group of men beating Benjamin senselessly, mocking him, cursing him, berating him, and telling him he’s going to die.

It frightened her. Immeasurably.

When she was grabbed, she resisted frantically and tried to flee. Even knowing how futile the effort would be, she had to try.

They dragged them both across a stage. She was confused and in a daze. She was convinced she was going with him.

Then somehow, she felt Benjamin call to her as they shared the stage. A calming whisper in her mind telling her to look his way. Then when she did, the rest of the night’s events... turned into a blur.

She remembers very little. She recalls her sire’s soothing wine-colored eyes, contrasted to the Prince’s harsh and stabbing blue gaze. The man with the angry silver stare who called out to her from the audience. Her first drink of blood with the Prince at her side. The spiteful words she muttered to him that weren’t her own.

It was like a dream, even though she knows it all really happened. A horrible fever dream that actually had a bearing on reality.

The undead beast in the mirror is her nightly reminder that she’s a menace.

She isn’t human anymore, but a vampire, or Kindred as the Camarilla calls it. A bloodsucking monster that must be contained for the safety of a society. She still has serious doubts about... all of it. Boogeymen, ghosts, and goblins never bothered her in the past, and to suddenly be told that vampires and other creatures are real is... unbelievable. But she can’t deny there is something to her condition that has altered her entire being.

It’s no wonder why the Prince chose to contain her in this Tower and have her reeducated on the hidden ways of the world. The darker side of the world.

Everything she thought she knew has been put back into question. Nothing is what it seems, and she doesn’t know who to trust. Even the Prince, the man who she’s been shoehorned to obey, is completely suspect in her mind.

The short blond man who ordered her sire’s execution is now claiming her as his own, as his protege and adoptive childe. He is her keeper and self-proclaimed savior.

He may be the only one keeping her from certain death, but despite that, she harbors no goodwill towards him.

She doesn’t trust him in the slightest or accept him as the charismatic leader the Camarilla has made him out to be.

In her mind, he is a user looking to capitalize on an unusual situation. He has the reins to her, and he’s leading her down an uncertain path.

She has no choice but to remain cordial and obedient for the Prince, as he is her only lifeline. The only thing tying her down to this unlife and keeping her from Final Death.

There is so much she has to learn still. So much she wishes she had the confidence to ask him. She is sad, fearful, and desperate for clarity.


End file.
